


Together too Soon

by Bitter_Baristas



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, MARKED AS COMPLETE BUT PERMANENTLY ABANDONED, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13315101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitter_Baristas/pseuds/Bitter_Baristas
Summary: Miguel feels the man shaking and he returns the hug fiercely, burrowing his face in the fabric of Héctor’s vest and wetting it with tears. Héctor cries too, unashamed. They weep for Miguel's life, cut short. The older skeleton pulls back and looks at Miguel again, an anguished tenderness twisting his features.“How, mijo?”FIC DISCONTINUED AND ABANDONED, marked as complete b/c I won't be working on it any further.





	1. Chapter 1

Death was funny. 

Miguel has this thought slumped against the brick wall of an alleyway, bleeding out. How many people were allowed the time to have the conscious thought ‘this is the end?’ He wonders this, and then wonders how many had far too much time knowing that death was drawing nearer and nearer. 

Victims of car crashes were pulled from the world harshly and quickly while some wasted away in hospital beds, longing and fearing their death that lingered outside the door. 

He is too young to die, he knows this. He is too young, and his youth is proclaimed in his appearance. From his bright jaket to his school backpack, lying discarded on the ground in the scuffle. He thinks to call for help, but somehow knows it will do no good. The crazed vagrant--reeking of booze and looking at him with wild, shifty eyes--who had attacked him had gotten lucky with his careless stabbing. 

Miguel had done nothing to provoke the man besides go past him, taking the alley as a shortcut. Demons must have made the man's mind a battle ground, because he lurched forward to snag Miguel's ankle. The teenager had struggled, been too shocked to call out as he scrambled back. The man dove, knife gleaming in his withered hand. He brought it down on Miguel's thigh, hitting the femoral artery. And then the man had run off, as if he hadn’t just condemned a fourteen year old child for deaths arms. 

He bleeds out quickly, darkness fringing his vision. His time dwindles, and the last thoughts on his mind are that he hopes his sister will be alright without him. He wants her to remember him without the pain of losing her brother.

This, he knows, is not possible. 

In his last moments he prefers not to think about his abuelita, who loved him from before his birth and would love him long after his death. He thinks of his father and his dark eyes, understanding despite the fact he is the disciplinarian, and he doesn't want to picture those eyes brimming with tears. His mama… he had thought he would live to see her become the matriarch of the family. 

As the blackness crawls over him like a shawl he thinks that he will see Papa Héctor again. That thought is a comfort as he is carried away on a sea of night. 

 

Miguel’s eyes pop open. His head snaps left and right, taking in the room in glimpses. Brick walls, stacks of papers and overflowing file cabinets, floor to ceiling windows that overlooked a city of fantastical lights. Small pools of warm, yellow light are given off from bare, skull shaped bulbs.

He has been here before, with his deceased relatives. 

Behind him he hears the click of a door being opened and the short man who had tried to help his family before scurries in frantically. He hurries to his paper covered desk, muttering to himself. Miguel coughs awkwardly and the man jolts, a yelp escaping his mouth. 

“Hola.” Miguel says lamely. 

“H-hola, forgive me, por favor. I didn’t know I had a new arrival. Our system crashed this morning.” The man explains, voice taking a frantic pitch. “I hope you weren’t here long.” 

“N-no, I just got here.” 

“Well,” he claps and sits in his comically large swivel chair. “I’m sure you have some questions. Por favor, ask, ask away.”

Miguel’s mouth falls open, silence coming out. He shrinks in his seat. 

The man squints at him, pushing up his taped glasses. “Do I know you?” 

“I’m Miguel Rivera.” 

The social worker sputters. “The living boy?!” 

Miguel winces and the man realizes his error. “Ah, lo siento. We weren’t… expecting you. Not for a long time.” He pauses and then launches into a prepared speech. “Transition is different for everyone, some experience different things at different times. Feelings, phantom pains from your living body. It will all seem very alien. But everyone goes through it. Let’s call your familia to Family Reunions, in the meantime we can get your papers settled.” 

“Papers?” 

“Oh, yes, death is a bureaucrats dream.” He chuckles and goes through a drawer, pulling out a form. “Normally we’d do this on the computer, but with the system down we’ll get it on paper and transfer it later.” He looks at Miguel and his expression softens. “If you’d rather wait until your family gets here that’d be fine.” 

Miguel shakes his head. “I’d… rather get it over with.” 

The man nods and crosses the room, poking his head out into the hall. “June, por favor call the Rivera’s to Family Reunions.” 

He sits again and presses his pen to the paper. “Full name?” 

“Miguel Rivera.”

“Age?” 

“Fourteen.” The man shudders, a subdued reaction that Miguel almost misses. He can tell the man is thinking that fourteen is far too young for death. 

He agrees with him. 

They go through many mundane questions and the man looks up at him, uncertain. 

“Cause of death?” 

Miguel’s brain stalls, blank, and he thinks about how he wants to answer. “I… A man stabbed me. I bled out.” 

The man dutifully writes the information down. “June!” He yells. “Are the Rivera’s on their way?” 

A skeleton wearing a violet skirt steps into the room, her heels clacking on the polished floor. 

“No one is answering the phone, sir. I’ve called four times.” 

The man pinches the space above his nose holes. “Perfecto.” 

“What’s their address? I can get there, after all this isn’t my first... time in town.” Miguel tries weakly to joke, and it tastes like ash in his mouth. 

They don’t like it, but in the end they give him a scrap of paper with Mama Imelda’s address and enough money for a trolley ride. He pretends he doesn’t see the pity in their eyes. 

He sets off, hood drawn over his head, hands shoved in his pockets. Being a skeleton feels odd, light and loose. He worries he’ll lose a bone, but then remembers how Héctor had fallen apart and reassembled at will. The memory of his grandfather, goofy and kind, combats the coldness that has settled in his bones. 

He walks aimlessly, not ready to face his dead family members. He does not want to cause them pain. Passing was supposed to be a joyous occasion, someone who had lived a long life and was ready to be reunited with departed family. His family surely wasn’t expecting to see him again until the next dia de los Muertos, taller then they remembered and strumming his Papa Hector’s guitar, singing with the breeze and marigold petals. 

They wouldn’t be expecting to see him turn up on their doorstep, clothes torn and blood soaked. The boy exhales, his head tipping back. The sky is an expanse of azure, almost indiscernible from the sky he was accustomed to aside from purple undertones. A golden sun hangs high, casting light that makes the wisps of clouds glow pink. It’s mid-day and the world around him bustles, not knowing his inner turmoil. He’s now just another face in the crowd, another dead soul. 

Miguel wanders, passing through markets and cart lined streets, colorful awnings fluttering in the breeze. People around him shout, music blares, dogs bark. Life after death is as busy as it was on the other side. He walks until he finds a secluded courtyard, a fountain bubbling in the center of it. A small collection of people and alejibre are stopped there, and he sees why moments later. 

Sitting on the ledge of the fountain is Héctor, eyes closed as his fingers dance over his guitar strings. The melody is gentle and slow, and Miguel is enchanted by the fluid movements of his grandfathers fingers. The song fades too soon, and the people applaud before dispersing. 

Héctor has not looked up yet, and Miguel feels a surge of confidence. He is determined to put on a brave face, to be strong so his family doesn't have to. He claps with gusto.

“Bravo, Papa Héctor!” 

Héctor’s head whips up, shock instantly turning to joy. In one motion he sets his guitar on the cobblestone ground and runs to his grandson, sweeping him into a hug. 

It takes a few moments for the realization to hit him. He withdraws as if Miguel’s body has burned him. He holds the boy at arms length, and in his eyes Miguel sees heartbreak. He shrugs and tries to smile. What more can he do? He wishes he can say this is a mistake, a mixup or a strange curse. But it isn’t. 

Héctor’s fingers gently cup his cheek and trail down to his shoulders, where they grip him tightly. He can see the bone of his boy’s clavicle and his previous elation turns to dread. He has not had a stomach for decades and yet he can feel phantom bile rise in his throat. He draws Miguel into his arms again, holding him with a tangible desperation. His hand presses Miguel’s head to his chest, and he recalls that the last time he’d been able to hold the boy Miguel had only come up to his ribcage. 

Miguel feels the man shaking and he returns the hug fiercely, burrowing his face in the fabric of Héctor’s vest and wetting it with tears. Héctor cries too, unashamed. They weep for Miguel's life, cut short. The older skeleton pulls back and looks at Miguel again, an anguished tenderness twisting his features. 

“How, mijo?” He does not want to ask. He hates himself for asking, but he needs to know what has brought his boy back to him so soon. 

Miguel turns his head, unable to meet his grandfather's gaze. 

“I--” the words catch. “A man… crazy, stabbed me.” He feels the need to say more, to assure his friend that it was not a painfully long death. “It was over rápidamente.” 

Héctor shakes again, this time in rage. He is in death as he’d been in life, a gentle soul. He does not often use his fists to express his anger. He is too kind hearted to be violent. And the moment he hears Miguel tell him of his demise, sees the blood dirtied and ripped clothes, he wishes the final death on the man who did this to his grandson. 

Miguel hugs him again, firm and grounding. He whispers something that shatters Héctor’s heart. 

“I missed you, Papa Héctor.” 

Héctor stifles a sob. “I missed you too, mijo.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dante is happily gnawing on a discarded chicken wing when he senses it. It is a feeling that comes over him suddenly, a cold slickness that makes the alejibre whimper. He scrambles out of the overturned trash can he’d been lounging in, his long nails slipping on the dirt as he darts towards the disturbance. In the pit of his stomach he feels something is irreparably wrong, and he doesn’t understand why he’s so compelled to go where he knows something awful has happened.

The dog slinks into the passageway, whining when he sees Miguel’s crumpled form. His tail curls between his legs. His humans skin is pallid, and all around him is a pool of crimson. The coppery smell of death assaults Dante’s nose. He begins to bark and does not stop until an irritated person comes to investigate what has aggravated the dog so greatly.

The alleyway is in moments a flurry of movement, people shouting and beckoning a police officer onto the scene. Before Dante flees, he sees Miguel’s face. The boy’s eyes are closed, his long, dark lashes stark against the pale of his cheek, still chubby with youth.

He runs with such urgency he doesn’t trip over his own gangly limbs. He charges into the Rivera household, whining and scratching at his boy’s parents and abuelita. The elderly woman does not attack him, instead she looks at him oddly. She too, senses something is amiss.

It is the boy’s mother who kneels to pet him in an attempt to calm the distressed animal. She murmurs soothingly to him, and it occurs to her that this dog is never around unless it is with her son.

“Where’s Miguel?” She asks, tone colored with concern that upsets the animal. She has noticed her sons lateness, and she has no idea that he will never come home alive.

Dante howls to the roof and nips at Enrique’s heels, looking at the man while he cries at the door. The man frowns, and one of the younger Rivera’s suggests that the dog wants him to follow. He knows as well as his wife that this dog is his sons companion, that the creature is goofy and uncoordinated but not prone to the display he is doing now. He steps out the door and calls back that he won’t be gone long.

Dante runs ahead of him, leading the man to the crowd that has gathered to watch the authorities deal with the body. Enrique can’t see over the people and he asks the person next to him what the commotion is about.

“They found a body,” the wizened woman speaks slowly, mouth hanging open so he can see her rotted teeth and gums. She smacks her lips together, wetting her tongue and worrying the gap between uneven teeth.

She says this, and the fear no parent wants to feel knots in Enrique’s stomach. Miguel is prone to tardiness, prone to wanderings of the mind that make him fail to notice the passage of time. His son is probably loitering with the local mariachi band, passing a guitar between them and testing who of them can strum out a tune the fastest. His son is talented, gifted from birth with music and song in his heart that his father appreciates but cannot fathom. His son is a blessing. His son is not dead, rather he is off playing music or running with schoolyard friends.

What the woman says next cements the dread in his gut into place.

“A boy, young.” She tuts and shakes her head. “Too young. They said it was that talented one who likes to play guitar in the plaza.”

Enrique hears this and then hears his heartbeat. It takes three deafening beats for the woman's words to sink in. He doubles over and vomits. The people around him jump back and someone makes a noise of disgust. The smell of his sons spilt blood and his vomit will linger in the air, baking in the days heat.

It is up to Dante to guide him home and when he is there Enrique cannot speak for minutes. He merely sits at the table, slumped and stone still. A strangled sound escapes his mouth and the dam bursts. He cries like he has never cried before, choking out fragments of information. No one wants to believe him, and they refuse to believe it until they see for themselves.

There is hope Elena and Luisa carry in their pockets like a kernel of corn as they walk to the police station, arms looped around one another to hold themselves together. They do not feel guilty for praying that the boy found is not their own.

The officer who greets them is red faced and sweaty. He listens to them without condescension, because he knows that the Rivera women are not to be trifled with. He is not supposed to tell them what he knows because he knows little, but he is very aware that the boy found is the same one who played the sweetest songs at festivals.

He does not break eye contact as he removes his hat. “Lo siento, señora, está muerto. I’m very sorry, ma’am, he’s dead.”

Elena takes it better than Luisa, who sags against the woman with a wail that permeates the station.

They stumble home and Elena tells the household, struggling to stand tall despite the tears running down her cheeks.

There is no mistake, no look alike who has been confused for their dear Miguel. Her grandson who she cherished with an intensity unrivaled… is gone.

There is no music after supper that night, and when Coco asks for her brother to sing her a lullaby no one is dry eyed. How to explain death to a child, how to tell them one they held so closely in their heart is gone?

Elena is the one who takes the challenge upon herself. And if she holds Socorro tightly without the intent of letting go, none of the other Rivera’s blame her.

It is easy to forget how quickly loved ones can be snatched away.

. . . 

Héctor is aware that they must go home eventually. They have stalled for an hour already, and he sees that Miguel is no more ready to face the rest of his family than Héctor is. The boy sits slouched on the fountains rim, his head dangling between his legs. He wants to say something--anything--that will help Miguel feel at ease. But when he opens his mouth he finds no words.

What can he say to help his great-great-grandson? What can he say that will make this situation less agonizing? There are no words that will change what has happened, so he says nothing.

His gaze sweeps over the courtyard. He chose this place because it was peaceful. Flowers and bushes grow in spaces where there is no brickwork, the fountain bubbles pleasantly, and when the breeze blows it makes the thin silver rods of a wind chime dance. Alejibre like to play here, bright purple and lime green chihuahua pups chasing one another. When he plays they listen avidly, and when he offers a hand they lick it. Other alejibre are fond of him as well, and if he sits unmoving he will soon be covered in the spirit animals.

He comes to this area because it is frequented more by alejibre than people. It is out of the way, and the others who find their way here too are looking for solitude. If he plays, they don’t pester him about Ernesto De La Cruz.

Right now the courtyard is empty, save for the two Rivera men. He is thankful for this. Miguel doesn't deserve to have his pain put on display, witnessed by strangers.

Héctor looks to the heavens and sees the sun has climbed higher, and he thinks that Imelda will be getting worried. He had said he was going for a walk, and although she’d never admit it he knows she secretly fears he’ll leave and not return again. He has been gone twice as long as he’d planned to be, and really, what good is it to delay the inevitable?

He lays a hand on Miguel’s shoulder and lets it rest there. The boy falls over into his side, leaning his slight weight on him. Miguel is a skeleton now, quite literally bare bones. Everyone in the land of the dead is equalized in this way. There is hardly a way to discern man from woman when flesh and fat has been stripped away. Knowing this doesn't stop the tug of concern in Héctor’s chest. Miguel seems so small, and Héctor can’t resist the impulse to gather the boy into his arms.

The first day he met the boy there had been a moment where Miguel was overcome with emotion, his face screwing up as he balled. Héctor had held him then as well, painfully reminded of his Coco. He couldn’t bare to see a child in pain, even before he’d been a father. In his village the old women liked to tease him, saying he could come over and watch their children. And indeed he had a way of making the most upset child smile. More than once he had offered to hold a new mothers cranky baby while she dug through her bag for something. A verse of a lullaby later the baby would be in good spirits, the mother looking at him with astonishment.

Héctor wraps his arms around his trembling grandchild, tucking the boys head under his chin. Miguel stills, and Héctor doesn’t need to look at him to know his tears are threatening to spill over.

He hums and rubs the child's spine soothingly. What he does next is something he had done for his own daughter many times before.

He sings. “Cierra ya tus ojitos, duermete sin temor. Sueña con angelitos parecidos a ti. Y te agarrare tu mano. Duermete sin temor. Cuando tu despiertes, yo estare aqui.” His voice dips low, rough like sandstone without his guitar accompanying him.

Miguel’s form quakes, his fingers snagging the fabric of his grandfathers vest. His cries start soft, and grow harsher until his bones chatter. Héctor hears the boy start to say something and then stop, whimpers drowning out his words.

“What is it, mijo?” He asks.

Miguel hesitates, and presses his head against Héctor’s sternum. “I… didn’t want it to be like this…”

Héctor’s heart clenches, with pity for his grandson and a burning anger at the man who did this to Miguel.

“I’m so sorry, mijo. You should have lived so much longer.” He strokes the boys hair, his fingers sliding through the silky strands.

Miguel shakes his head vehemently, the rush of a confession trapped in his mouth. Héctor waits patiently for the boy to compose his thoughts, his hands keeping at their calming tasks. Miguel takes a shuddering breath, wiping at the snot that has dripped down from his nostril holes.

“I missed Coco.” He admits this shamefully, and Héctor doesn’t understand the implication. Miguel continues before Héctor can question him. “I missed you and Mama Imelda, and I missed Mama Coco so much I thought… it wouldn’t be so bad to die if you were waiting on the other side.” He keens, his knees drawing to his chest and his arms folding around them. “This… this is my fault for thinking so selfishly. Mama and Papa and Abuelita… how could I do this to them?”

As he says it, he knows it isn’t accurate. He didn’t kill himself. He didn’t take that shortcut to get himself killed. It was an unfortunate, malicious twist of fate. No, his confession is not one of fact, but of emotion. It is how he feels; guilty for thinking death was okay to long for, even for a second. Guilty for looking forward to throwing himself into Coco’s arms and taking comfort in their hold. Because for every scrap of solace he finds here he knows his living family is receiving none.

Héctor is stunned into silence by Miguel’s words. He goes still, thoughts firing through his mind at breakneck speed. Ernesto had taken everything from him, his family, his songs, and the contempt he feels for that hack has nothing compared to the hatred he feels for the man who murdered his grandson. He doesn’t wish death for the man, he wishes something worse. A lifetime of torment, of relentless medieval torture that would make the man beg for the privilege of death.

He jerks back and forces Miguel to look him in the eye.

“You listen to me,” he says sternly, so different from his typically lighthearted tone. “I never want to hear you blame yourself for this. It is not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. What happened…” he stops and swallows the rise of emotion in his throat. “Isn’t fair. You didn’t bring it on yourself, you didn’t deserve it. You hear me, chamaco?”

One of his hands has crept to the back of Miguel’s neck, preventing the boy from looking away. Miguel dares to meet his gaze, frighteningly sincere and blazing with righteous fury.

He nods and the grip leaves the base of his neck. The seriousness melts off Héctor’s face and his features return to the somber expression that looks out of place on his normally smiling face. They stay where they are for a while longer, Miguel in Héctor’s lap as though he is a baby. To Héctor, who has lived for over one hundred years, he is a baby. And he will remain that way until the day the final death claims him. A child at just fourteen, frozen in time.

Héctor tries to smile sympathetically and shifts the boy off of him. He stands and holds his hand out to the boy.

“Can you walk, mijo?”

Miguel nods and accepts his hand.

As they make their way to the house, Héctor notices how Miguel keeps close to him. It breaks his heart to see the wonderfully vibrant child dampened by death.

When they get to Mama Imelda’s house they both stare at the door, painted a dark pink color that has chipped around the edges. Héctor fumbles for his key and Miguel presses against the houses wall, breathing deeply. Before Héctor can unlock the door it opens, revealing Imelda. Her eyes narrow on her husband and her foot taps as she waits for his explanation.

He stares up at her, slack jawed and mute. Her cross expression becomes gentle.

“Mi amor, what kept you?”

Héctor squawks, and then feels his cheekbones heat with a blush. He isn’t forced to articulate an answer. Miguel moves to stand beside him, hands shoved into his pockets and his head lowered.

“That’s my fault, Mama Imelda.”

The woman blinks, rears back, and her face is wiped clean of emotion. She stares at him uncomprehendingly, the fact that her grandson stands before her more than her mind can handle. What has that boy done now? How has he managed to curse himself twice in a lifetime when almost no one else in the world manages it once?

“What is he doing here?” She demands, leveling her husband with a hard glare. “We need to get a marigold petal and sent him home ahora!”

Héctor shakes his head slowly, lightly taking hold of his wife’s upper arms.

“No, amor. He can’t go home.”

Imelda’s brow furrows and she leans away from him, her eyes flicking to Miguel again. She looks closer this time, taking in every detail. She sees his collarbone, his pants drenched in crusted blood. Beneath his eye sockets are orange dots and on his temples are golden swirls, the colors the same as her husband's facial markings.

The world tilts and she is suddenly in Héctor’s arms. When the haze in her skull dissipates she wants to pretend that what she has seen is nothing but a dream. She searches for Miguel again, hoping she does not find him, but her fears are confirmed. Their sweet great-great-grandchild who reunited her with her husband is dead.

All her life Imelda had been strong, she’d had to be. She had to work hard to provide for her family and emotion was a liability. She couldn’t let her family or anyone else think she was weak. She did not cry easily, she did not forgive easily. It was a trait she carried with her into the afterlife. But seeing Miguel, brave and kind as her husband, dead, makes her facade crack. Tears pour down her face and she bites down on her hand to quiet a sob.

Miguel is on his knees a few paces from her and Héctor, and he crawls over to them. He takes her free hand in both of his.

“I’m sorry, Mama Imelda.”

She yanks the boy into a hug, teeth clamping down on another broken noise.

“Bebé, pobre dulce bebé.” She whispers, petting his hair.

Miguel relaxes into her embrace, a wave of sleepiness washing over him. The day has been a long, emotional one. And when he falls asleep on the floor, sprawled over his grandmother, Héctor carefully picks him up and carries him to their bedroom. Imelda tucks the boy in, brushes loose strands of dark hair out of his face before pressing a kiss on his forehead.

She and Héctor stand beside the bed, his arm around her shoulders and hers wrapped around his waist. They watch Miguel slumber, his expression serene despite the trauma he’s endured.

Neither wants to leave his side, and they allow themselves to linger a few minutes. They finally tiptoe from the room, casting one last glance at the boy who was brought back to them far too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, chapter two! I hope it didn't disappoint. Next chapter we'll see how the other dead Rivera's react.  
> The song in English is:  
> Close your eyes now  
> Sleep without fear  
> Dream with the angels  
> that look like you  
> And I will hold your hand.  
> Sleep without fear,  
> when you wake up  
> I'll be here.  
> I found it here: http://www.allthelyrics.com/forum/showthread.php?t=75427  
> Translations:  
> Mijo--son  
> Ahora--now  
> Bebé, pobre dulce bebé--baby, poor, sweet baby  
> Mi amor/amor--my love, love
> 
> Also! Check out my Tumblr: https://bitterbaristasfanfiction15213.tumblr.com/  
> I sometimes post ficlets there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miguel sees the rest of his family.

Héctor shuts the bedroom door behind him and leans against it, breathing out a sigh. His eyes half lidded, he glances to Imelda. She stands rigid before him, watching him. In his eyes she sees a dullness that frightens her, and she feels her own sockets well with tears. Her teeth clench and she reaches impulsively for his hand.

Her abrupt movement surprises him, and Héctor blinks, staring dumbly at her hands that now grasp his. Her bones are pristine compared to his yellowed ones, hairline cracks webbing through the bone from decades of hardship. His gaze trails up to her face and he sees that she’s begun to reign in her emotions. She’s erased the deeper creases of grief from her features, and if another looked at her now that might assume simply that she is exhausted, or that it is a trick of the light.

Her jaw is clenched too tightly, it juts out slightly, and Héctor knows she is fighting to keep it together. Briefly he admires her strength, and he then thinks that he married the most wonderful woman in the world. She is standing firm, and he is close to falling apart. He wonders what she sees, and he can assume that he paints a pathetic picture. He feels his chin quivering, and there’s a wobbling inside of his chest cavity from a heart he no longer physically possesses. The hand at his side clenches into a fist and his body pitches forward.

Imelda catches his weight when his knees buckle and he buries his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, soaking the purple fabric of her blouse. Her arms enclose around him automatically. Beneath his mourning he feels ashamed for breaking down, for forcing his wife to comfort him when her suffering is undoubtedly equal to his. He is also grateful for her strength.

They remain standing at their bedroom door for minutes, holding one another. Héctor does not know that Imelda is grateful that he is in her embrace, his trembling arms circled tightly around her. The unruffled expression she’s pinned to her face aches and she is glad his head is pressed to her shoulder, because this way he can’t see her crumbling. A numbness has climbed up her legs and the only thing keeping her standing is Héctor’s arms.

Héctor sniffles and reluctantly rights himself. His hands find their way to Imelda’s cheeks, silent tears coursing down them in a torrent. The ghost of a smile tweaks her lips and she opens her eyes.

He holds her close as he leads her to one of the bathrooms in their house. It lacks a toilet, but has all the other amenities. He wets a cloth with warm water and cleans her tear stained face, mustering a smile.

“Even when you’re crying, you’re beautiful, mi amor.”

Despite herself she scoffs, and the small victory makes Héctor’s chest swell.

After they are both presentable, they prepare themselves for the task of informing the family about their newest member. Imelda calls them all downstairs to the kitchen, her relatives curious gazes turning worried when they see her apprehension. She clears her throat, and Héctor squeezes her hand.

“We have a new arrival.” She announces, and immediately realizes her error in not preemptively telling them who it is.

Coco reacts too quickly for her to amend her statement.

“Elena?” She watches Imelda, her wide, kind face saddened. Imelda’s mouth flaps open and closed, her voice trapped in her throat.

Héctor steps forward, removing his straw hat. “No, Coco.” He inhales, steels himself, and speaks. “It’s Miguel.”

Óscar and Felipe gasp, instinctively moving towards one another. Victoria’s ever present, no nonsense expression gives way to one of shock. Rosita breathes in sharply, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Julio is silent, his brows knitting together. He glances to his wife. Coco gives no outward reaction for a long, uncomfortable moment.

She takes in a small breath and whispers to her husband, “I need to sit.”

Julio jumps to pull out a chair for her, and slides it into place just as she sinks back. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, visibly shaken. Héctor moves to stand on her other side, the woman bookended by her father and husband. His hand lands on her shoulder and she seizes it. “How, Papa?”

Her voice warbles, and he forces himself to meet her gaze.

“He only told me… that a man stabbed him. That’s all I know.”

The room collectively gasps, and then, “bastardo!”

Imelda spits the word, dripping with venom. Everyone turns to her, and she doesn’t hide her seething. Her husband stolen from her by his murderous ‘amigo’, and now her grandson given to her by a hand that grasped a blade. She does not know how, but in an instant she vows to bring Hell upon the man who has done this to her grandson. She shall see him suffer. He will feel the pain that he has thrust upon her family. The family she built from the ground up, the family that she has sworn to always protect.

Her previous anguish is converted to a more familiar feeling, conviction, ire. It is fire in her marrow. It is how she has endured every scourge in her life. When her husband walked out of their home, the one they’d made with sweat, blood, and tears, and failed to return, she didn’t wallow in self-pity. She didn’t let her speculations incapacitate her. She put herself to work, kept her hands busy fashioning leather into shoes or braiding Coco’s hair.

She turned her despair into productiveness. So what if the love of her life had abandoned them, for his career or a harlet, it mattered little. In her death, she could spin pain into vengeance. She could find a way to make the man who murdered her grandson _pay_.

Héctor’s hand is gentle on her shoulder and she deflates. She gravitates to him, pressing herself into his lanky frame. She sighs and rubs her face. Revenge will not change what’s happened. Nothing will change it. The only thing that can be done is to make sure Miguel is made comfortable. They cannot ease the pain he feels being parted from his living family, but they can show him that he is just as loved by his deceased family. Imelda already knows the boy will never want for affection.

She will teach him how to craft the finest boots. In life Filipe and Óscar loved to carve alebrije from copal, and before their death they had dreamed of going to Oaxaca to sell their whimsical creatures. If Miguel liked her brothers would gladly teach him to make the wooden statues, and Victoria would show him how to paint them. Rosita would be overjoyed to have the child by her side while she cooked, telling him the secrets to the perfect mole sauce.

Héctor, of course, could help Miguel further his guitar skills.

“None of us thought he would be the next to come home, but he’s here. We all have to do our best to make him feel at home.” She surveys her family and they all nod. “Good. Now, does anyone have any clothes that will fit him?”

. . . 

Miguel wakes up in a bed that is not his own. He bolts upright, mind racing and imagined heartbeat thundering. His memories come back to him slowly, and his hands that have bunched the blanket up to his chest lower.

He is dead, and if he had to venture a guess he’d say he’s in Mama Imelda’s room. Although the curtain is drawn sunlight filters through and he sees that the walls are covered with photographs. Some were clearly taken in the afterlife, while others he recognizes from offerings left out at Dia de los Muertos. There are pictures of his living family. His parents wedding photo, and next to it… Miguel squints and crosses the room to take a better look. Mama Coco wears a wedding gown in the picture, and grinning beside her, their arms linked, is Héctor in a suit. There is another photo of Coco kissing Julio sweetly, the man's face is blissful and a crown of dahlia flowers sits on Coco’s head.

Miguel realizes that Héctor died long before Coco married, and had missed walking her down the aisle. They must have recreated a wedding to fulfill the father and daughters wish. The next photo makes his jaw drop. It is black and white, yellowed and frayed from age. A young Héctor wears a stiff-looking suit and has his arm around Imelda. Her hair is loose from its usual style and spills over her shoulders in a mass of black curls. She holds a bouquet and it hits him that this is his grandparents wedding photo.

He lightly touches the glass that protects the picture. Where had it come from? The only explanation he can think of is that Coco saved it, and made it an offering to her late mother. Which would mean Imelda chose to take it, frame and hang it. The thought warms him. Knowing that his grandfather is happy will never cease to please him. That he helped bring the star-crossed lovers together again might have been his greatest achievement.

Miguel looks to the other pictures, surprised to see other living family members. His cousins, at birthdays or holidays and… Socorro. There is one of his mother the day she gave birth, newborn Socorro swathed in a pink blanket in her arms. There are many photos of Baby Coco, including one where he is alive and balancing her on his hip, both of them smiling, and Miguel doesn’t feel the tears forming in his eyes.

His abuelita must have laid out the family photo albums at the last Dia de los Muertos.

He turns from the wall of photos and staggers, allowing himself to fall on his hands and knees. Tears blur his vision. The carpet feels rough and familiar on his hands. He breathes in and out, feels the dusty texture of the foot worn rug. Strips of color, sky blue, red, brown, yellow and orange swim into focus.

The rug is a serape, the same kind he’s seen in his own family home everyday. Miguel sits back on his heels and breathes slowly, calming himself. A shadow falls over him and he looks up, Mama Coco’s form silhouetted by the light now coming in from the open door. She kneels and hugs him, her movements no longer weak and shaky.

“Hola, mijo.” She murmurs.

“Hola, Mama Coco.” He replies, arms hanging limp at his sides. She laughs, a feather light sound that reminds him of tiny, tinkling bells. “I brought you some new clothes, mijo.”

Miguel doesn’t say anything. He simply throws his arms around Coco with a grip he’d have never dared when she was alive.

“I love you, niño.” The time she holds the boy trickles into minutes and she finally stands. “Get dressed, bebé. Dinner will be ready soon.”

His new outfit consists of blue jeans he has to roll the cuffs of, a white undershirt that is too long, and his old hoodie. The sleeves go just past his elbows, but the soft red fabric is a tremendous comfort. The thought that he will never outgrow anything again pangs him, and he chooses to ignore it. He leaves his old clothes and shoes--skeletons didn’t need shoes!--in a neat pile on the floor. As he walks he takes note of how the floor feels on his bare feet. The hardwood in the hallway is not hot or cold, and he experimentally stomps his foot. He can feel the pressure, but it isn’t painful.

What could hurt a skeleton? Did they feel temperature? Could they be killed? He had so much to learn.

He follows the sounds of people and they lead him to the kitchen. Héctor notices him first and whistles lowly.

“Ay, handsome chamaco, just like his grandfather.”

“You--”

“Wish, Héctor.”

“He takes after--”

“Our side of the family.”

Felipe and Óscar say, their natural way of finishing each other's sentences unnerving.

“Sorry, amigos, the good looks come from me.” Julio says this, and he can’t keep a smile from tugging at his mouth.

Coco and Rosita laugh fondly, and the short man's face turns red. Victoria is eyeing him strangely, and Miguel feels small under her scrutinizing gaze. She snaps her fingers, the thing she’d been trying to identify revealing itself.

“Shoes! Mama Imelda, he needs some new shoes.”

Imelda, who was rolling out tortillas, nods. “Who wants to make them?” She asks, and everyone's hand, except Héctor’s or Coco’s, shoots upwards. She smiles. “Too bad. I’m going to make him a pair.”

Felipe and Óscar huff and she snorts. “Hush.”

They mutter in unison about how it isn’t fair she’ll always be the eldest sibling.

Rosita’s sandal clad foot toes at the floor. “Miguel,” she begins sheepishly. “Would you mind a hug?”

Miguel blinks, head tilting to one side. “Of course I wouldn't mind--” As soon as the words leave his mouth Rosita has him in a bear hug. When he starts to wriggle uncomfortably the twins steal him, holding him between them. He’s passed around the whole family, and after everyone has smothered him he feels a bit better.

The kitchen table is large, its surface embedded with colorful tiles. There is plenty of room for all of them. Héctor quickly snags a seat beside Miguel and the meal passes pleasantly. Óscar and Felipe, whom he’d spent less than two hours with, talk eagerly to him. They ask him what has changed since their passing, and Miguel is able to recount what he thinks is most interesting without flinching.

The twins are a presence, talking animatedly and sharing stories that they argue about the details of. They offer a comical air to the dinner, and Miguel finds he can laugh at their antics. He thinks it strange that two people so goofy could be related to his great-great-grandmother.

Soon everyone is regaling him with tales, telling him about the afterlifes amazing places. Felipe and Óscar want to take him to the zoo, which is a museum come to life, as they described it. There are so many wonderful places to visit, and the brothers are already concocting activities and outings they think Miguel will like.

Imelda scolds them for talking his ear off, and Miguel shoots Héctor a small grin, pulling at the empty space where his ears would have been.

The man’s face splits into a grin. The sight of Miguel smiling, joking, is a blessing. Looking at the child hurts him, but he buries that feeling. He loves Miguel so much, and having the boy with them is bitter-sweet. He had thought he’d died young being in his twenties; Miguel was still a teenager. So much he’d never experience. He wouldn’t grow older, wouldn’t shoot up in height like a weed, wouldn’t meet someone he loved as much as his grandfather loved Imelda. He was missing out on watching his baby sister grow up. On the last Dia de los Muertos Héctor had seen the adoration Miguel had for the child, how careful and gentle he was with her, and right then Héctor knew Miguel would be an excellent father.

Now he’d never have the chance.

All because he was murdered.

Héctor isn’t the type of man who looks for meaning in tragedy. Terrible things happened to good people, it was that simple. Awful things happen in the world everyday, who is he or anyone else to define what they mean? Why did loved ones leave, why was there evil in the world? He doesn’t have those answers, nor does he seek them. The way he sees it, everything has meaning, or nothing does. He has not decided which is better.

Miguel has died. There didn’t have to be a reason why. It was the bad side of a coin flip. The boy is here, and he would be loved and cared for, that was ultimately all that mattered.

Like Héctor, every one laments his premature passing privately, outwardly showing the warmth of a family he’s been apart of his entire life. The moment he died, Miguel got a gang of family members who would do anything for him. They love him with a fierceness that is bewildering, secured by an invisible link that tethers their family together.

Héctor ruffles Miguel’s hair. Whatever it takes, he will make sure to give his grandson as many good experiences as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are all amazing! The amount of love I've gotten on this fic is tremendous, and I want you guys to know I appreciate you. In answer to some questions I've gotten; Miguel is dead. I'm not going to resurrect him. Sorry :/ But I promise he's going to have some great experiences in the afterlife with his family. Also we should be seeing some more of Dante and maybe some of what's going on in the world of the living in future chapters.  
> The Coco wedding picture idea came from a post on Tumblr where a genius said she'd renew her vows so Hector could walk her down the aisle. There was a picture too, it was such a cute post--that I failed to reblog or like... so if I see it again I'll link it.  
> UPDATE Demona Silverwing had the link to the post! https://dfandomreblogs.tumblr.com/post/169545711748/nevuela-since-hector-obviously-wasnt-there-to
> 
> Until then, I love you all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the land of the living, Miguel's family holds his funeral.

Enrique doesn’t know what to expect in the aftermath of his son's murder. 

He is familiar with death. Coco’s husband, Julio, had passed away when he was a child. He remembers the small tears that ran down his grandmothers leathery skin, contradicting the curl of a smile on her lips. She held onto his hand and said, only to him, that death was just the next stage of life. She seemed to know this as fact, the same way she knew the sky was blue. 

As a child Enrique hadn’t understood the permanency of death. He didn’t understand that the worst part wasn’t the wake or funeral, but the years afterwards. It was everyday Coco turned to say something to her husband, trailing off mid-sentence when the realization that he wasn’t there hit her. And then, years later, she began to mistake Miguel for Julio. 

He thinks this, then thinks about how he will never see Miguel’s face light up as he plays the guitar. His son will never again jabber on enthusiastically while he half listens. After the family ban was lifted, Miguel was constantly humming, his hands drumming out beats on overturned pans as he helped his abuelita in the kitchen. To him, music was as natural as breathing. The house will never feel as warm as it once was without the music Miguel was constantly making.

Miguel had played Coco’s lullaby to her every night until she died, determined to give her something Enrique wasn’t privileged to know. His son had always been close to Coco, but after he played her that song they shared an even stronger bond. He could sit with her for hours, enraptured with her stories. Enrique doesn’t know, and had not asked when he’d had the chance, how Miguel knew so much about Coco’s life. When her mind began to slip, Miguel would tentatively prompt her with a reminder that was too spot on to be a guess. 

“Do you remember how your Papa and Mama would dance and sing? Do you remember how you used to dance in the plaza, how you met Papa Julio?” 

“Ah, yes,” Coco would say, smile blossoming on her face. “I remember. I remember.” 

And after she passed, Miguel sang her lullaby to his sister. Whispered bedtime tales to her like precious secrets. 

Now, the only way he can hear his son’s voice again is their family videos, recordings of him singing and playing in the plaza. 

Enrique knows now, as an adult, what death entails. Loss, pain, a vacancy in ones heart that can’t be filled. A bedroom that will remain empty for years, and when it does take a new function, they will all feel guilty about it. 

He knows these things, the emotions to expect, but he has never dealt with murder. The process that lies ahead of him is foreign. He has seen television dramas that involve the grieving family being led into a morgue where the body is wheeled out of a freezer by a wise cracking medical examiner that pulls back the sheet dramatically. 

He doesn't know what to expect as a heavy-set, square faced police officer leads him into a waiting room. There is a coffee maker and water dispenser in the corner, the carpet is beige and sitting at a large table is another man. He wears straight tan slacks and glasses. He stands when he notices Enrique’s presence. 

“Mr. Rivera, thank you for coming. I’m Ángel Lopez.” Enrique numbly shakes the mans hand and sits when Ángel motions to the chair. “I’m going to give you a picture of the boy, face down, on this clipboard. Take all the time you need to look at it.” He looks at the father sympathetically. “The identification process is a formality. Whenever you’re ready.” 

He takes the clipboard and breathes in deeply before flipping the photo over. He looks at it for a second and turns it over again, the sick feeling in his stomach no less painful, but also not worse. He’d been preparing for this moment, known that the boy found was his. All night the family had stayed awake the day it happened, waiting in vain for Miguel to come home. 

Of course, he had not. 

Enrique nods, blinking back the tears that now shine in his eyes. “That’s my son.” 

The man thanks him, explains that the body has been thoroughly examined and can be sent to the funeral home where a wake can be held. Enrique mutters his understanding and walks outside slowly, not feeling the heat of the high sun. 

As he walks home, Dante appears by his side and escorts him. 

. . .

The wake is more somber than any other held in the Rivera family. Elena had wanted to cook, but it proved too difficult in her grief. Neighbors and family friends appear out of the woodworks to offer platefuls of tamales and empanadas. They bring their sympathies, flowers, and candles. Miguel’s death is like that of a celebrity. His parents had not realized just how well liked their son was by the townspeople. The line to get into the wake goes out the door, a constant buzz of condolences and stories vibrating in the air. 

They believe that death is not to be feared. It is as natural as birth, and a funeral is not so much ‘goodbye’ as it is ‘we’ll meet again.’ Still, their hurt is fresh and raw. This feels like goodbye, and what was often an occasion to celebrate the life of the deceased is painful. 

Enrique is a grounded man. He works in the Rivera business to help provide for his family and he goes to mass when his mother decides it is appropriate. Since he was a boy, he was brought up to believe in Jesus Christ and the Virgin of Guadalupe. His heritage runs deep and rich, and his upbringing dictates that the dead live on in a realm separate from their own. 

He has not doubted this before. It was what his mother and abuelita taught him, and they knew better than he did. Yet the prospect of death suddenly feels terrifying and unnatural. What if everything he knows is wrong? What if Miguel is truly gone?

What if all that’s left is the body, embalmed and prepared for the wake by all of the family? 

The children had each chosen something to gift him--a cloth doll from Socorro, a pack of cards from Abel, and a silk scarf from Rosa, who stubbornly fights to hold her tears at bay. 

Lusia has brushed foundation and blush onto his pale face, breathing artificial life into her sons cold body. Miguel had always been hot blooded from his time in her stomach, under the burning Mexican sun. When he was young and she held his hand on outings, their palms always slicked with sweat. Even when the boy was healthy his temperature ran high. 

Now, his skin is cold. His heart is not pumping that hot blood through his veins, flushing his cheeks with excitement. 

Lusia had done an excellent job. As Enrique looks down at his sons face he half thinks Miguel’s eyes might pop open at any moment. He’ll sit up, confused, and ask what’s going on. No one would care that it was impossible. Those cheeks, warm and pink, would be kissed mercilessly. A miracle, the family would say. God took one look at our Miguel and said it wasn’t his time. He sent him back to us. 

None of this happens. 

Miguel is long departed. His soul left the flesh in that alleyway along with his spilt blood. What lies in the casket, partially covered in a white sheet, is just a husk. Enrique knows that beneath that sheet are Rivera crafted shoes on Miguel’s feet. He wears proper clothes that look out of place on him. It is the suit he’d wear to church, or to a cousin's baptism. It is a far cry from the jeans and tee-shirt his son always wore. 

Enrique stands close to his mother, his arm wrapped around the old woman. Her wrinkled hands, the same hands that had clothed him as a baby and changed his sons diapers, are clasped over her chest and trembling. Tears cascade down her face and Enrique breathes in, holding back his own tears. He must stay strong for his family. Miguel’s mother and grandmother are permitted to weep and openly break, he does not have that luxury. His grief is not to be had publicly, but privately and shamefully. He is the man of the family, and his job is to stand tall, offering comfort to his wife and mother. 

His legs are weak and he feels sick, and he’s grateful when Miguel’s uncle and three other men offer to be pallbearers. The mariachi band that had been so fond of his son plays over the sound of mourning and more flowers are laid into the casket. With him they send photographs, trinkets. Lusia and Elena scream and cry over their boy. The screams tear from their throats, piercingly loud. It is as if they are alone inside themselves, lost in a desolate ocean or desert and crying out as loud as they can. Hoping that someone will hear them, hoping that someone will save them from their grief. Their cries bounce off the headstones, and the more reserved Rivera’s think it’s a wonder the two women didn’t wake the dead. 

It is a sight that makes Enrique’s heart squeeze painfully tight. 

Lusia’s body lurches forward as he’s lowered into the ground, and Enrique has to hold her back as she reaches for her child. Pleas pour from her mouth in Spanish and she finally goes limp on the ground, her husband patiently holding her. 

All the Rivera’s throw in a handful of dirt. Dante too, with his clumsy legs, pushes dirt in. The dog howls to the heavens, and when they leave he goes with his boys family. He has to see them through their grief, and then he will go to his friend.

. . .

 

Héctor devotes his attention to the task of making Miguel’s transition into death as painless as possible. The death itself is over--was over when his heart stopped beating and his brain gave one last surge of energy. The pain of the knife wound and blood gushing down his leg, the sinking and drowning in a haze, was over. The fog had cleared and his bodily limitations were far less restricted now, but it isn’t a painless existence. 

Part of his heart is still with his living family. Miguel tries to hide it, but Héctor can see how torn apart the boy is. He is dying inside all over again, and that is unacceptable. 

Héctor nudges Miguel’s shoulder and jerks his head towards the front door. Miguel blinks and follows curiously, leaving the remains of a devoured breakfast. Imelda watches them go, smiling when her husband sends her a quick wink. 

Héctor leads Miguel outside, a lightness in his steps. Many of the sprawling cities homes are precariously stacked atop one another, strings of lights outlining them to create an otherworldly glow in the night. It is a fantastical view. The buildings stretch so high they seem to puncture the sky, and how they stay upright is nothing short of magic.

Where Imelda lives is away from the clutter. Her gumption and hard work has brought her far and she owns a plot of land where her house is built. The house is large, painted an earthy tone with splotches of purple and pink coming from window shutters. Orange clay tiles line the roof and her front yard is a small courtyard decorated with potted plants. Winter jasmine, with its mass of tiny, yellow flowers, climbs up the houses walls. How Imelda has cultivated all the greenery is anyone's guess, but it is a spectacular sight. 

They walk in silence off the Rivera property. Héctor waits for the boy to speak, and when he doesn’t he takes it upon himself to. 

“I know you miss your family, mi chiquito. It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend you don’t.”

Miguel ducks his head down, debating. He trusts Héctor, knows the man will bring him no harm or scorn. Knowing this does not detract from his nervousness. But glancing up he sees Héctor’s face, kind and loving. He feels a pull in his chest that urges him to tell the truth. 

“What…” he pauses, unsure of how to continue. “What happened to Ernesto De La Cruz?” 

Héctor blinks. “He’s dropped from public graces and out of the public eye to lick his wounds. Everyone saw what he did, you know? They broadcasted it on television, and now everyone knows who he really is.”

Miguel shakes his head. “What if he… comes after me?” 

Héctor hadn’t thought about that possibility, and he could kick himself for that. Miguel wasn’t just missing his family, he was afraid for his safety. Ernesto had threatened the boys life once before, he was capable of doing it again. 

The man kneels and puts his hands on Miguel’s shoulders. “We won’t let him come near you, Miguel. If he so much as looks at you your Mama Imelda will beat him with a shoe.” 

Miguel has to smile at that, because he knows it’s true. Imelda would beat him with her shoe, and then she’d sic Pepita on him. 

“Ay, there’s that smile.” Héctor says teasingly. “Come on, mijo, we’re actually going somewhere.” He starts walking again, Miguel trailing behind him. 

“Where?” 

Héctor grins. “To get you some new clothes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Another update, yay! I feel like this chapter was kind of boring, but meh. I still like it. In future chapters I think we'll get to see something from Rosa's perspective on what's going on, and even Miguel's killer. Who, spoiler alter, will come into play again. Any maybe we'll even see De La Cruz.  
> A lot of you have given suggestions on directions for the story to take, and I think it's awesome! I love your input. rayningnight suggested Rosa or Socorro putting Miguel's picture up on the ofrenda, and I love that idea! I think that will be something that happens.  
> I don't know much about traditional Mexican wakes and funerals, I read multiple articles to gleam an idea and I hope the depiction wasn't awful. I apologize for any inaccuracies.


	5. Chapter 5

Miguel quickly learns that Rosita, Óscar, and Felipe are all eager to claim their roles of tía and tío’s.

The twins, whom he had mistaken for soft spoken when he first met them, ask him questions--tentatively at first, and as it becomes apparent they aren’t pestering him it is a bombardment of inquiries. They stare at him, wide-eyed and mesmerized, as he tells them about his abuelita. They had passed away when Elena was a girl, and it is clear to Miguel they adored their great-niece. They tell him about when she was a baby, a wrinkled screaming thing that was nothing like her mother, who they scarcely heard raise her voice. 

Elena had been more Imelda’s granddaughter than Coco’s daughter, they explain. They say this, and Miguel vividly remembers desperately singing to Coco, praying she remembered Héctor. Elena had cried upon seeing her mother lucid, a choked up joy shining in her eyes when Coco addressed her by name. The memory grips him, and the twins recognize the homesickness stricken on his features. 

They fumble to apologize, dumbfounded when Miguel shakes his head. 

“Tell me more.” He says, “tell me everything,” and they don’t need to be told twice. 

They tell him about the late evening call they received from Imelda, sounding more vulnerable than they’d ever heard their sister sound. They had been carving alejibres after a long day of manual labor, preparing for a trip to Oaxaca, when the phone rang. Imelda said Héctor was gone, and she had started a shoe making business and if they wanted to be apart of it she’d be very grateful. 

“You gave up on your dream,” Miguel realizes aloud, and Felipe shrugs while Óscar smiles softly. 

“Imelda needed us more than Oaxaca.” Óscar says. 

They tell him about Coco when she was a baby, the most good natured baby they’d ever met. They tell him stories up to Elena’s birth, the child born with the gift of scrutiny. Every word that left Imelda’s mouth was like gospel to Elena, although she was certainly a mama’s girl. When Victoria was born Coco couldn’t do anything without the two girls attached to her hip. Her only peace was when the girls decided to entangle themselves in Imelda’s skirts, trying their best to get a candy out of the woman. 

They tell him stories up to their deaths of pneumonia, Felipe hanging on only two days after his brother passed. As they speak about the end of their lives, they don’t look regretful. They recount their lives, and deaths, with a kind of sentimentality, as though talking about a pleasant childhood summer. Miguel himself has been adamantly trying not to think about his death. Everytime the memories flood back into his mind, his bones begin to shake and his chest constricts in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

Answering the twins questions helps keep his mind from returning to that alley. 

Miguel enjoys talking to the brothers so much that Rosita has to wrestle him away from them. 

She takes him for walks through the courtyard garden, telling him about the plants that grow. He learns that in life, she had aspired to one day be a florist.

She crouches and strokes the blushing pink petal of a begonia, and he truly notices the flower markings on the apples of her cheeks. She walks to a brick well with a small roof covering it, a rusted pail hooked on a pulley. Watching her lower the bucket into the well is a surreal sight, one that reminds Miguel that his relatives had lived in times very different from the one he knew. She dumps the water into a watering can, a nostalgic expression on her face. 

“I made the bouquet for Coco and Julio’s wedding.” She says, dousing a plant that carpeted the length of soil on either side of the walkway that led to the house. Tiny, white flowers bob beneath the droplets that slide down into the tangle of silver leaves. 

Rosita smiles brightly when he offers to help her water the garden, and decisively plucks a daffodil from the ground. She braids it into a lock of his hair, her pink mouth puckering into a smile. “Daffodils symbolize new beginnings and rebirth.” She explains, patting his cheek. The gleam that usually twinkled in her eyes dims slightly, and Miguel doesn’t think it’s a trick of the light. 

 

He has been dead for six days, and through it all Héctor is close by. If he were younger he’d have held the man's hand like a lifeline. But he is fourteen and while his physical aging has stopped, he refuses to act like a child. 

He can feel the pitying gazes of his family members on the back of his head when they think he isn’t paying attention. 

He knows they love him, and while they are happy to have him here, they are also saddened. To have him with them so young, it is a tragedy. They look at him, and he wonders if all they see is the embodiment of the experiences he will never have. All the things he might have accomplished, all the songs he might have given to the world… he can only give them to the Land of the Dead now. He is aware of his youth, and had not yet hit puberty or gained interest in girls. It doesn’t escape him that he will not grow into his father's build. He will not graduate high school, he will not awkwardly kiss a girl or fumble over his guitar to play her a love song. He will not grow up. 

As a boy of fourteen, having a family hadn’t been on his mind when he’d been alive, but now he feels the loss of opportunity. He won’t father a child, won’t teach them the joys of music and song. 

These thoughts swirl in his mind, a whirlwind of emotions; sadness, regret. Strangely, though, not anger. He has not dedicated much thought to the circumstances of his death, to the stranger who cut his life short. He is more afraid of Ernesto De La Cruz trying to extract some kind of revenge. 

For that reason, he’s grateful that he hasn’t been left alone. 

This mornings activity is cooking huevos rancheros with Tía Rosita and Mama Imelda. He has helped his Abuelita in the kitchen before, but he’s content to let the women assign him tasks and explain the purpose of them. In the midst of their self-assured movements, the heat of the stove warming the morning, he can pretend he’s home. That it is his mother and abuelita telling him to whisk eggs. 

Rosita compliments his work when he finishes whisking. Imelda says little, her watchful eye observing his every movement. Her hands cover his to correct him when she sees him do something wrong. Her voice is firm but gentle as she explains that it’s better to slit a jalapeno down the center before scraping out the seeds and mincing it.

Héctor sits at the table, idly strumming out a song. 

“You’re lucky to learn from Imelda,” he says, grinning cheekily. “I went without her food for so long I’m nothing but bones!” 

He narrowly dodges an onion aimed for his head, wagging his eyebrows at his wife. 

Miguel laughs, and he can’t contain his own grin. “Mama Imelda, do you have a bone to pick with Papa Hector?”

The woman stares at him, and then glares at her husband, wrist flicking to point the knife she holds in his direction. “He gets that from you, idiota.” 

Héctor feigns hurt and comes up to kneel beside Miguel, arm wrapping around the boys shoulders. They pout, for a moment as in sync as Felipe and Óscar. Imelda can’t keep her cross expression and waves them off. 

“Go. Sit. Breakfast will be ready soon.” 

Miguel sits, and finds he can’t stay still. He eyes Héctor’s guitar, left on the table. He reaches for it, and after a moment of uncertainty, his fingers dance across the strings. Un Poco Loco comes out without his conscious command, and Héctor begins singing with gusto. Grinning, Miguel joins him. Another verse in and Coco joins, her feet moving gracefully in a dance as she enters the kitchen. Miguel whistles and the woman becomes bolder. Héctor jumps from his seat to dance with her, and Miguel gives an encouraging grito. Un Poco Loco turns to dancing music that Rosita claps along to.

The music pulses in the room, a carefree energy coursing through them. 

When the moment ends, Miguel feels invigorated. He hasn’t touched a guitar since his death until today, and playing is almost therapeutic. The heaviness in his bones seems to have lifted, and the hollowness in his chest isn’t as pronounced. 

He moves suddenly to hug Coco, and she returns the embrace heartily. Miguel feels his feet leave the floor, and Coco spins him around. 

“Buenos dias, mijo.” Her hands fall to his shoulders and squeeze. 

“Buenos dias, Coco.” Imelda says, moving to give her daughter a one armed hug. Héctor goes to her other side and presses a kiss on her forehead. Coco brightens under the affection. 

Watching them gives Miguel a warm, fluttering feeling. Theirs is the parent child relationship he’d had with his own parents, the love unconditional and limitless. He remembers his mother inspecting him in the mornings before sending him off to school, always ending her examination with a kiss to the crown of his head. Then, when he returned home, his abuelita would smack a kiss onto his cheek. 

The intensity of love the Rivera family had for its members, it would seem, stayed strong through the generations.

The warmth ebbs, drowned by a sinking feeling. He has been trying to keep himself busy, but in this moment his mind isn’t too preoccupied to think about the family he’d left behind. He can only speculate about their grief, and he hopes that his imaginings are childishly disproportionate to how they really feel. Because what he imagines is his mother and father breaking down, his abuelita’s spitfire personality reduced to smoking embers. 

He doesn’t know, can’t know, how they are faring. Somehow, he feels that he knows his imaginings aren’t wrong. There is a disconcerting certainty within him, a stubborn truth in the back of his mind that whispers beneath the white noise of conversations with Óscar and Felipe and Héctor’s guitar. 

“Mijo?” 

Miguel snaps out of his thoughts and realizes Coco is looking at him with concern. He is still in her embrace, the woman’s hands on his upper arms and holding him. Averting his eyes, he blinks and feels the wetness of tears in his lashes. Embarrassment flares inside him and the impulse to run and hide hits him. He ignores it, instead choosing to move closer to Coco. His arms wrap around her middle and she accepts him readily. She cooes softly, humming a melody he recognizes. 

It is the song her father wrote for her, the one he had sung to her and Baby Socorro. The tears come harder, and Coco’s hand is a comforting weight on his head. He presses his face into her pink shawl, and she is fondly reminded of when he was a baby. He didn’t know that she had sung that same lullaby to him to calm his crying fits, the melody almost instantly pacifying him. She’d known her Mama’s rules wouldn’t stop the child she cradled in her arms. Music was passed onto this child the same as the color of his skin. 

The kitchen is quiet now, song and laughter gone. 

Miguel’s breakdown comes as a shock because it is sudden. None of the Rivera’s expect his transition into death to be painless, but aside from his first day with them Miguel had done an adequate job at concealing his feelings. 

The child's shuddering cries shatter the illusion that he is coping fine. They all, in their own way, feel guilty for not seeing his distress earlier. 

Héctor takes Miguel to the bedroom that had been given to him, sparsely furnished because he had yet to collect any possessions. He intends to sit Miguel down on the bed to let him cry himself out, pausing as he sees an odd assortment of items on the mattress. 

His neck cranes as he looks, and the answer pops into his mind. Miguel’s funeral offerings. He has no idea how Miguel will react, but he points them out. The boy sniffs and wipes at his tear shining cheeks. 

“This is what they buried with you, mijo.” Héctor explains. 

Miguel sits numbly, looking over the small pile of things. There are photographs, a deck of cards, and… a hot pink scarf that was Rosa’s prized possession. She had received it on a birthday and worn it to tatters before retiring it to a dresser drawer. She loved running her fingers over its smoothness, and seeing that she buried her treasured scarf with him stuns Miguel. He takes it in his bony fingers, staring at it blankly. 

The mattress dips as Héctor sits beside him. Saying nothing, Miguel ties the scarf around his neck. His hands drop to his lap and he lays his head on Héctor’s shoulder. 

After a long moment of silence he says, “I’ll see them again.” 

In his mind he adds, “hopefully not for a long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you so much to everyone who has commented, I read every comment and they just make my day! So thank you! See you next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosa misses her cousin.

It isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair that he’d only been an annoyance of a kid cousin, a twerp who got on her nerves with his cheeky grins and headstrong personality. 

It isn’t fair that he’s dead. That he left their family home for school one day and never returned. It isn’t fair she keeps reliving that day, remembering him asking if she wanted to walk home together. They walked home together most days, and she can’t stop seeing herself dismiss him to go to a friends house. 

He had called out to her, waving in his over exaggerated manner. She remembers how he hitched his backpack up higher on his shoulder, how the sunlight shined on his hair, which he had let grow out to a shaggy length. Whenever his mother ran her fingers through his hair, commenting that he should let her cut it, Miguel ducked away, hands covering his head protectively. 

“No mi pelo, mama! Necesito ser guapo. Not my hair, mama! I need to be handsome.” 

She had never known Miguel to be vain, unlike her own brother who she often caught flexing in the mirror. She had assumed he was starting to think about girls. 

She remembers all of this. Most vividly, she remembers how she scoffed at him and said she had better things to do than escort him home. Miguel had shrugged, unbothered, and began to jog home in the same direction he took everyday. 

She can’t escape the guilt, the screaming, unrelenting voice that tells her if she had only walked home with him _Miguel would be alive_. Her own thoughts try to poison her, festering in the darkness of her bedroom when she tries to sleep. 

Everytime she sees Miguel’s mother hastily wipe away a tear her insides shrivel with guilt. She can hardly look at her abuelita, who seems irreparably broken by the death of her grandson. Elena loves all her grandchildren; the warmth of her love pours over them everyday. She loves them all, but Miguel was different, special. Her love for him came from another place. Rosa sometimes felt that her abuelita loved them out of necessity, obligation. The love she harbored for Miguel was more fierce. 

She has vague memories of being eight years old, Elena scolding her for making a six year old Miguel cry. While Elena explained to her that she was older and had to be more responsible, Miguel stuck his tongue out at her. Rosa thinks that’s the first time she felt hate. And it was such a big emotion for one so small, how could anyone expect her to control it? When she spots Miguel alone later, she doesn’t hesitate to run up behind him and push him. Hard. Miguel’s elbows slam into the ground and the skin slips, bleeds. He wails. Rosa cries. Elena yells at them, demanding to know what happened. 

Miguel is too upset to answer, and Rosa lies. Miguel doesn’t rat her out later. 

She is two years older than Miguel and age graces her with height. Later, when Miguel glares at her with red rimmed eyes she can reach the pan dulce left out the the counter. She offers the sweet bread like it’s an olive branch of peace, and he accepts, munching on it happily. In a day they have experienced rivalry and tentative alliance.

When Miguel is ten, she is twelve and wears her hair in pigtails. A boy twice her size yanks on one of her pigtails and laughs when she cries. Rosa hadn’t noticed Miguel on the playground before hand and he seems to appear out of nowhere, screaming like a maniac as he throws his weight into the bully. Sitting on the older boys chest his fists fly in a flurry of wild punches. 

Elena comes to collect them, both of their small faces tear stained and Miguel’s clothes dusty. She is, to Rosa’s surprise, ready to listen to their story. After hearing it, she nods approvingly. 

“Family protects each other.” She says, and neither child gets in trouble with their parents. 

Rosa looks at Miguel differently after that, her jabs and complains about the boy more posturing than ill will. He gets on her nerves, something not hard to do given her short temper, but she loves him. 

If anyone at their school gives her cousin a hard time, it doesn’t last long. No one dares to steal lunch money from the kid cousin of Rosa Rivera, who got her spunk from her great grandmother. And the next time she sees that same boy harassing her cousin, she doesn’t falter in grabbing her shoe and hurling it with frightening precision. 

If anyone gave Miguel trouble he didn’t deserve, they came to class the next day with a black eye and an excuse. 

Those mean spirited boys who took advantage of their growth spurts and Miguel’s late blooming now avoid looking at her for a reason that is not fear. 

It’s pity, and Rosa hates it. 

She hates Miguel for leaving them. For taking a part of her heart with him. 

When he’d been alive she’d given him grief, but she loved him, saw what her grandmother saw in him when he began to help her play the violin. It wasn’t even the instrument he played, but he learned alongside her just so he could help her practice. It was something he picked up easily, bow drawing across the strings and fingers pressing on the right spots without looking at the beginners booklet Rosa had read front to back. 

Music came naturally to him, the notes that tangled in her head something he could discern by ear. Afternoon violin lessons are a thing of the past. 

Miguel is gone, has been gone for two months. The hole he left behind has yet to be filled, but they are managing to skirt around it. Rosa, more tactile than any of her family members, searches for facts. She researches grief, looks up the loss of a child. What she reads makes her heart sink. Parents who have lost a child, statistically, grieve for six months. 

Four more months of pain. Can Miguel’s parents survive that? 

Only after two months are they starting to eat full meals again, and the weight loss is frighteningly obvious on Enrique. The man always had a slim frame, but now he looks gaunt. Elena continues with more strength, piling her sons dinner plate high and insisting he eat everything before leaving the table. Like he is a child. 

As the head of the family, Elena has responsibilities. She has had her time of despondent grief and haphazardly pulls herself together. Rosa follows her example. She converts the pain into numbness, because if she cries herself to sleep another night her nose will crack and bleed. On a particularly good day she tries playing the violin. She can’t. Her fingers are stiff and uncoordinated, and she fumbles when she picks the instrument up. 

There is a grace required to play the instrument that she suddenly lacks. The deftness for finesse is gone with Miguel and she resigns herself to something she knows how to do well: shoe making. 

The chatter that once made the workshop a lively place is a thing of the past, Miguel’s parents sullenly silent. Rosa can’t fault them. She lost a cousin; they lost a son. 

Elena does what she can to bring normalcy back to the household, saving her grieving for when she thinks no one is watching. Rosa hasn’t found her sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall for hours, in a few weeks. Instead, Elena loses herself in smaller ways. She still tries to set Miguel’s place at the table, still looks at his seat expectantly when her mind allows herself to forget that they’ve buried him. 

That he hurt them in this way isn’t fair. 

That the police investigated for a week and then gave up isn’t fair. 

Someone killed Miguel. Someone got away with it. 

She imagines how things went down over and over, going through different scenarios. Had they intended to rob him, and once the act was done they realized he had nothing of value? Had he stumbled upon a drug deal, gotten caught up in the middle? Or maybe it was a senseless thing, without reason. 

Rosa is sixteen years old. Her wit is biting sharp and she has the tongue of a lawyer. She is not an idiot. She knows people can be warped and dark; evil. Perhaps Miguel crossed the path of one of these crazies and suffered the consequences. 

Thinking about the other possibilities almost makes Rosa thankful her cousin hadn’t met a harsher fate. What happened was awful, a tragedy, but it could have been so much worse. She’d over heard her uncle comforting Luisa, assuring her that the medical examiner told him the death had been quick. Whatever pain Miguel had been in, it was over fast. And while she is aware her thought process might be strange, she’s glad Miguel is simply dead. He is not a missing child snatched off the street. He is not in a pedophiles clutches, suffering a torment Rosa can’t think about without wanting to vomit. He is not mysteriously vanished to a fate they would never be privy to know. 

He is not trapped in a dark basement, starving and cold, bruised and beaten. He is just… dead. They know exactly where he is; buried in a plot with the rest of the Rivera’s. If they want to visit him, they know where to go. 

This, in its strange way, is comforting. 

Thinking about his faceless killer, on the other hand, lights fire in her veins. The police had come to deliver the news to her aunt and uncle, regretfully admitting that the one lead they’d had (a drug addicted vagrant who took crack instead of the clorpromazine he needed) led to a cold trail. Tomas, they’d called him, had fled Santa Cecilia via hitchhiking and they didn’t have the resources to track him down. They’d thrown in an excuse about believing he’d crossed the border into the United States. They were very sorry, but they didn’t anticipate any news in the near future. 

Rosa curses the police when they leave, but Enrique and Luisa hardly seem fazed. They were drowning in grief already, the imprisonment of their sons killer wouldn’t bring Miguel back.

She is not so easily swayed. A quick internet search tells her that clorpromazine is a common pharmaceutical used to treat psychotic disorders. Schizophrenia is one of the reoccuring search results. Miguel’s killer, this Tomas, is possibly a mentally disabled homeless man who suffers from hallucinations and delusions.

This new information makes her no less furious. So what if the guy was crazy, he chose to take crack and not the medication he was supposed to. He was the one who threw his life away by doing drugs. He threw his life away and took Miguel’s as well. 

As far as Rosa is concerned, he could _burn_. 

When thinking about it all becomes too much, which doesn’t take long at all, Rosa immerses herself in mindless, mechanical tasks. She does extra credit for school, takes on more chores to ease her families stress. It isn’t enough. 

Miguel continues to dance across her thoughts, and nothing she does banishes his memory. 

Her family teaches that memory of those who have passed keeps them alive, but it is a painful thing to constantly be reminded of someone who she cannot embrace or tease. 

Through the two months, no one has gotten to putting Miguel’s picture on the ofrenda. His parents aren’t ready to face the reality, to truly admit to themselves that he’s gone. She takes the task upon herself, choosing a picture where Miguel is making a goofy smile, a guitar in his arms, staring directly into the camera. The picture was taken a few weeks before his death at Abel’s twenty first birthday. She and Miguel had played him happy birthday on their instruments and pooled their allowances to buy him a new fútbol and his favorite team's jersey.

It had been quite a celebration. 

On the back she scrawls Miguel’s name, birthday, and date of death. As she does so, it occurs to her, not for the first time, that they wouldn’t celebrate Miguel’s next birthday.

Rosa lays the photo into a sturdy frame and holds it in her hands. The teenager lingers in the doorway of the ofrenda room, her conviction wavering. She knows she has to do this, but now feels the need of another's presence. Rosa knows of only one person who won’t judge her. 

She returns, Socorro in tow. Rosa is almost as tall as the highest shelf, but the familiar room suddenly seems daunting. The melted stubs of last years candles remain, the solidified wax forming pools on the white linen tablecloth. A few dried marigold petals have been pushed to the corners of the room. 

Squeezing Socorro’s hand, she puts his picture on the table. 

Perhaps it is that she is too young to understand what death is--after all, the child is only two--or perhaps it is that she takes after the woman who is her namesake. Whatever the reason, Socorro is somber and calm. She seems to know what they are doing, which Rosa knows is ridiculous but takes comfort in anyway. 

“Miguel used to tell you about our ancestors and the ofrenda.” She says aloud, not sure if she’s just speaking to the air or to Coco, who can’t possibly understand the weight her words carry. “He told me that it was all real, the stories about death. He was so sure, like he knew. He actually made me promise to always make sure the pictures on the ofrenda were safe. It was so important to him…” Rosa laughs, short and loud. “He took close-ups of all the pictures with his phone, ‘just in case’, he said. Like it was life and death, that the pictures stay on the ofrenda.” 

She falls into silence and turns to go. Pausing, grimacing to herself, she takes her cell phone from her pocket and takes careful pictures off all the family photos. She glances at Socorro, who has her hand in her mouth, and says, “its bad luck to upset the dead.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Real chapter this time. For real.

The light in Miguel returns slowly. Héctor’s watchful eye has not left the child in the two months he’s been with them, and perhaps he notices more than the rest of the family. He knows what to despair is, knows what Miguel is going through while the rest of the family can only sympathize.

They were all privileged with greying hair and stiff joints, something he and Miguel will never experience. Héctor toasted with his friend from a lifetime ago and collapsed, his world going dark and returning transformed. He awoke a skeleton, was pushed through family customs where no relatives awaited him. For years his family was the other outcasts, the others who had no one and came together to form a mismatched community.

Like himself they weren’t bad people. Just the ones who were born into a world with no one and left it the same way. Héctor hadn’t known his parents well. They died when he was young and passed into the Final Death long before his premature end. This was the misfortune of many of his adopted family members. This had almost been his ending, had he and Miguel not crossed paths.

He knows what it’s like to die young and unexpectedly. He left his home with every intent and desire to return to Imelda and Coco, but fate dictated that was not to be. Miguel went to school one day, never thinking that it would be different from any other day. He was going home to a family who loved him when the viper that was fate or bad luck struck.

Be it apart of some divine plan or the unfortunate hand life dealt, Miguel died at fourteen. Little more than a child. The life he’d imagined as he drifted into sleep at night was suddenly forever out of his grasp. Watching his sister grow up, going to her wedding and crying tears of joy and pride, was never to happen. He would never grow into the lanky frame he’d inherited from Héctor. He wouldn’t awkwardly court a girl, he wouldn’t change the musical world in the land of the living. 

Like Héctor he would miss out on so much of Socorro's life. Héctor died too young, leaving behind his daughter. Miguel died even younger, leaving behind his baby sister, who shared Coco’s namesake.

The irony of that is so incredibly cruel.

But Héctor has always been an optimist. It took almost a century, but he got the chance to see his little girl again. He missed out on her life, yes, but he’ll be there for every moment of her death. He hugs and kisses her every morning, the sheer joy that washes over his face when he sees her still as potent as the day she arrived.

Miguel’s wounds will heal in time. Héctor knows this. Yet the hurt remains in the present and every small step the child takes into moving on is a reason for celebration. Every sunny smile, rare as they are, makes Héctor beam. Every time Miguel admits defeat and comes to one of his relatives for comfort is a reason to be thankful.

Seeing him suffer in silence is heartbreaking and they’d all much rather hold him as he cries than pretend everything is okay. Not many of the Rivera’s are subtle, however, and the women are loath to pass his room in the night and stand idly by as he sniffles quietly on the other side of the door. But they also understand that barging in and forcing comfort on Miguel isn’t the answer, either. Sometimes crying alone is what needs to be done. Imelda wept silently in her room after Héctor died many times, all the while knowing her brothers would gladly comfort her.

His stubbornness is a trait as learned as it is genetic.

Then one night, a small knock, almost too soft and hesitant to be heard, draws Héctor from his bed. Miguel stands on the other side, shifting shyly and looking like he’s just made a terrible mistake. And that is unacceptable. Seeking comfort is not something Héctor will let Miguel feel ashamed for and he embraces the boy immediately.

Miguel stiffens and then throws his arms around him. Héctor hums and strokes the boy’s hair, hears Imelda stir awake and feels her eyes on them. She says nothing, feigning sleep.

“Come on, mijo, let’s take a walk.”

Miguel lets himself be led, and Héctor isn’t sure if he grabs the child by the hand or if Miguel takes his. Whatever the case he feels a surge of fatherly instinct from the small hand in his own, so similar to how he’s imagined holding young Coco’s hand would be. Alas, those years are gone and while he’s accepted that, the fantasies of what might have been will always persist. 

“Papa Héctor?” Miguel asks, voice milky from sleep.

“Yes, chamaco?”

“My leg hurts.”

Fear shoots like lightning through Héctor. He does his best to hide it.

“Where?”

Miguel points to the part of his thigh where the knife had plunged. Héctor can’t keep a wince off his face. They have made it to the gardens that surround the house and Héctor grabs Miguel’s under arms and lifts him, sitting him down on the brick wall that encircles the property. He heaves himself up as well, unsure of how to explain what the feeling is.

“Mijo, do you know what phantom pains are?”

“Like when someone loses an arm and they can still feel it?”

Héctor nods. “Well, sometimes when people die, they can still feel the pain from when they died. I had cramps for months after.”

A small “oh,” falls from Miguel’s mouth and they sit in silence. Héctor is frantically trying to think of a good way to fill the daunting silence when Miguel does it for him.

“Dante!” He cries, jumping from the wall and stumbling as he runs. Héctor follows, confused. The confusion dissipates when he sees what Miguel already has. It’s his alejibre guardian, trotting towards him with his tongue rolled out of his mouth and swaying as he moves. Miguel crashes to his knees in front of the animal and hugs him, laughing and crying as Dante licks him happily. “I missed you, Dante!”

The dog yips, colorful body wriggling excitedly. A smile pulls at Héctor’s mouth as he watches Miguel reunite with his friend. Miguel’s smile is on par with his twelve year olds selves, so bright it’s blinding. 

Dante jumps on Miguel, who had been on his haunches, and they both fall back. Miguel laughs, sputters as Dante’s tongue slicks his face. He halfheartedly pushes at the mutt. Dante sits on his chest, wall-eyes on Miguel.

“I’m glad you’re here, boy.”

Dante gives no indication he understands his friends words other than barking again and licking Miguel’s nose. Miguel grins, sitting up. “Papa Héctor, can Dante have some leftovers?”

The boy’s face is as iridescent as the sun. If Héctor was ever going to say no to his grandson, it could never be to that expression.

“Don’t wake up the whole house,” is his only condition and the boy and his dog take off sprinting. Héctor thinks to himself that things will be easier for Miguel now that his best friend is with him.

. . .

It is noticed by all of the Rivera’s that Miguel’s spirits are much higher now that Dante is by his side. Unlike in life, when Dante was prone to flitting in and out of Miguel’s home, the dog hardly strays. A few times he’s left in the night, but he’s always back come morning.

Wherever Miguel is found, Dante isn’t far.

While the alejibre could be dumb as dirt, which Héctor had seen him licking on multiple occasions, Dante has the instincts of a true guardian. So when Héctor, Imelda, Coco, the twins and Miguel are on a Sunday trip to the market and Dante’s ears flatten against his head, angry growls slipping past his bared teeth, it’s an alarm bell. Miguel stops short, ahead of the rest of his family, and frowns.

“What is it Dante?”

Dante snarls, droplets of spit landing in the dirt. Héctor comes up behind Miguel a second after the shock wears off. His hands land on the boy’s shoulders and he’s ready to pick Miguel up and run at a moments notice. 

Miguel is the one who sees it first, the object that has upset Dante so. On the side of the beaten path is a pile of garbage and amidst it is a slumped skeleton. The man’s bones are the stark white associated with the newly deceased, but despite this he looks downtrodden. His clothes are threadbare and gaping with holes, his shoeless feet dirty from walking through the muck of the gutter. His eyes are glazed and he is clearly cracked out.

Héctor can see certainly why Dante feels threatened by this person.

Miguel trembles under his hands and his body pushes back into Héctor’s. Images and sensations bombard him. Waving to Rosa, buying a popsicle from a vendor on his way home, gnawing on the stick and wiping the stickiness from his mouth as he chats with one of the men from the local mariachi band. He remembers seeing the time and panicking because he was supposed to be home. He remembers cutting through an alley, a shortcut that would shave a few minutes off his trip.

In the alley was a man, reeking of booze and piss. Miguel paused for a half second, staring at the man, debating. He was motionless, huddled into himself and pressed to the wall. Miguel decided he was probably asleep and stayed close to the opposite wall as he crossed the alleyway.

The man moved suddenly with a speed not fitting of his appearance, and everything after that is a blur. Pain in his leg, laying against the brick wall, his blood pooling around him. He remembers acceptance came easily to him, moments before his vision faded and then returned to a world so different from his own. 

Dante’s barking breaks Miguel from the flashes of memory and sensation. Fear mounts inside him rapidly and his mouth opens to speak. No words come out. He can’t move, can’t think.

Dante stalks closer to the man, low to the ground and looking very much like a lion before it pounces on its prey. The man groans, jerks awake on the heap of garbage he’s chosen to pass out on.

His hand lands on an empty beer bottle, gripping it.

“Ey, get this Xolo away from me.” He slurs, squinting in the sunlight. He looks expectantly at the Rivera’s, gaze stopping on Miguel. His head tilts to one side and he frowns, the vague familiarity of the boy apparent but still lost in the oblivion of his broken mind.

He recognizes Miguel, he just doesn't know from where. 

Miguel’s memory is not so far gone. He speaks unintentionally, the spell of paralazis breaking, and points a shaking finger at the man. 

“You,” he whispers. “You.”

The man struggles to stand and ends up sinking deeper into the bags of foul smelling trash. “I know you, don’t I?” He asks excitedly. “From when I was alive? Do you know who I am? They told me my name but that’s all they knew. I don’t remember anything, chamaco, do you know me?” He’s dragged himself from his makeshift bed and is using the wall to stand on misshapen legs that take one step towards Miguel.

Fear and pity twist in Miguel’s ribcage. Fear wins out and he backs away, forcing Héctor to move with him.

“You killed me.”

That’s all it takes to jolt the other Rivera’s from their bewilderment and Imelda is shoving past Miguel and Héctor in seconds, a storm of Spanish curses flowing from her mouth. Her shoe is already in her hand and the man leans on the wall, terrified.

“You are the monster who killed my grandson?” Her voice is bleeding edge sharp. Miguel has heard her sound cross, but never furious. Never like this.

“No! I-I-I don’t know!” The man stutters, sinking to the ground. He stumbles back, falling over his own quaking limbs.

“You killed my fourteen year old grandson.” Imelda says. It’s not a question. “Hijo de puta,” She raises her shoe above her head.

Miguel doesn't see her land the blow because Héctor’s hand covers his eyes and he’s pulled away. He doesn’t fight Héctor as the man picks him up, cradling him like a baby. Héctor runs, Coco close behind him. Óscar and Felipe do not follow.

Héctor and Coco take him home and the three of them sit in tense silence, Coco’s hands grasping Miguel’s like a lifeline.

It’s a half an hour later that Imelda and the twins return, Dante in tow. Oskar and Felipe are visibly shaken and Imelda is vibrating with rage. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides and strands of hair have fallen out of her bun. Héctor, for the first time, is afraid of what his wife is capable of.

Coco stands and whisks Miguel from the room, Dante close behind them. He goes without protest, gaze on the new shoes Imelda had lovingly made for him.

Héctor rises to meet Imelda, questions building behind his closed mouth, but none leave when his jaw drops.

She wipes the hair out of her eyes and sighs, the coils of anger inside her unraveling. He embraces her.

She numbly says, “he’ll be fine.”

Héctor doubts that, honestly. He’s sure she’s broken at least one of his bones, but he can’t deny he thinks the man deserves it, even if he didn’t remember what he’d done.

“I just…” Imelda starts and stops, unable to continue. Héctor hushes her gently.

“It’s okay, mi amor. It’s okay.” Under his words she melts. Her tears overflow and are dried in his shirt.

“Mama Imelda?”

All eyes snap to Miguel, who looks too small in the doorway. He says nothing more and goes to hug his crying grandmother. She looks down at him, disbelieving. She then returns the embrace, crying harder when Miguel starts to cry with her. Héctor envelopes them both in a hug, joined by Dante, Coco, and the twins.

No one says anything else about the incident. There is no trying to justify what happened. Imelda attacked a man, beat him savagely, and he deserved it. No one would dare contest that. The man murdered a child, their child, and he was lucky Imelda hadn’t sicked Pepita on him.

Perhaps Miguel is the only Rivera who feels truly guilty for what happened.

And that’s because he got his heart from Coco, who in turn got it from Héctor. But even the father and daughter can’t muster much sympathy for the man.

  
. . .  


Later that night, lying awake in his bed, Dante asleep on his feet, Miguel’s mind runs a mile a minute. Who was the man? Why didn’t he remember what he did? Why had he done what he did?

And the question that keeps coming back.

_Why do I feel bad for him?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Sorry about the fake out chapter yesterday. I posted it and almost immediately regretted it. I wasn't my best work and I'm much happier with this chapter. I won't promise regular updates from now on, but I'm still determined to finish this fic. It just might take a while. Until next time, have a great day everyone!


	8. Chapter 8

Tomás Garcia doesn't get a fair shake at life. His problems begin early, at conception and then in the womb. His mother, a woman he has no name for, died before she could even hold him in her arms. Swathed in a blanket, screaming as her vitals cried out in warning, he was passed to a nurse and since then he’d been passed off many times.

He grows up with distant relatives who already have five children to feed, and if they knew he needed medication it wouldn’t have mattered. They couldn’t afford it.

He stays in that house until he’s fifteen, and then he takes to the streets. Crack, he finds, quiets the voices in his head. It’s not long until he ends up in a gang, and it’s not long after that he is in trouble. Stealing drugs instead of selling them isn’t smiled upon. To teach him a lesson, the boys he thought were his friends break his legs.

They never heal properly.

After that he remembers very little about his life, and that’s fine with him. He drifts from town to town, surviving on hand outs and scraps.

Tomás fades in and out of reality, his consciousness dimming until it’s black and brightening until it’s blinding. The day it happens, he has sunk so low into a fog he can hardly breathe. It’s been sometime since he’s had a hit and the voices are starting to whisper from the darkness.

He knocks back another burning gulp of tequila to hush those hissing memories. He doesn't want to think about his past. About a woman with kind brown eyes that crinkled when she smiled at him, or about anything else. He doesn’t want to think at all.

A bell rings to his side and a shopkeep steps out to shoo him away, a broom held threateningly in their hand. Grumbling, he staggers to his feet and sways off the high traffic street to an alleyway. He sits heavily and drinks the day away.

. . .

There are snakes writhing all around him, waiting for him to move, waiting to strike. Flies are burrowing into his eyes, eating sweet flesh and festering in the cavity. They’re in his mouth, choking him. He can’t breathe and the voices are silent. Or are they screeching? He can’t tell. All he knows is that he is dying.

He lies perfectly still, but his mind urges him to move, to dislodge the creatures devouring him. His hand curls around something hard and metal. Something is watching him, he can feel its eyes. He doesn’t dare look at the thing, he knows better than to look a demon in the face.

Footsteps draw closer and every part of his mind is screaming at him to _kill kill kill._

He moves so quickly he doesn’t know what’s happening. When the voices hush into whispers, he looks at the demons. But something is wrong, so terribly wrong. There is no horned, black eyed beast, but a child. A boy surrounded by red. Blood.

_No, no, no. No!_

He runs. He runs and runs until his legs will go no farther.

The world blurs and how he gets there is a mystery, but he’s in a basement that looks vaguely familiar. Where is he?

He moves without thinking finds a shelf filled with bottles of liquor. Hands grasp a long neck and he swallows down until there is no more poison left. He takes another bottle. He drinks until he can’t see the boy’s face. He drinks until the world disappears.

. . .

He wakes up in an office, confused. There’s a nice skeleton lady who has a calming voice that tells him he’s dead. She is asking him questions that he doesn’t have answers to. She frowns at her computer screen and tells him his name. _Tomás Garcia_.

She regrets to inform him that his mother has already passed on to the final death and he has no other family in the land of the dead. She wants to know if he has a trade, any skills they could put into the system to help him find a job.

He says no and leaves her nice voice behind even though she’s calling after him.

 _Tomás_ , he thinks. _My name is Tomás Garcia._ He feels no connection with the name. He feels no connection for anything, really.

Like he had in life, he finds a way to get drunk. It’s impossible for him to determine how much time has passed and he’s just laid down for a nap when he hears growling.

There’s a dog near him. It’s growling and snarling and the family isn’t calling off the mutt.

He looks at them, irritated, and sees a face he recognizes. Chubby cheeks, brown eyes (brown eyes, he remembers brown eyes flecked with sunlight) and a head of black hair. All of it is so familiar. His son? Does he have a son? He can’t remember.

He asks the boy he knows that he knows if they have knew each other in life. Maybe this child was friends with his son?

The boy looks terrified and says something he can’t believe.

“You killed me.”

No. No, that’s not right. He wouldn’t kill anyone. Would he? He can’t remember if he’s the kind of man who would hurt a child, but he doesn't think he is. He hopes he isn’t.

A woman with fire in her eyes hits him with her shoe again and again. Two men who look the same drag her away and he lets himself fall into darkness.

He comes to when someone nudges him with their foot. There’s a man, tall and dressed well, towering over him.

“Tomás Garcia?” The man asks, looking down on him.

“Sí,” he croaks.

The man kneels and hauls him up, “there is someone who wants to meet you.”

Tomás stumbles after him, so low into the fog he doesn’t think to protest or ask questions. The world, so colorful and bright it hurts his head, is a blur as they move. They pass a loud collection of noises. Voices, music, the sizzling of meat. A market, Tomás guesses. He’s taken through a series of serpentine alleys, turned around a few times.

If he was not so far gone he would have realized they were purposefully disorienting him. They come to a stop in an open, vacant courtyard. They wait. It could be minutes later, but he can’t be sure. A man steps out if the shadows. He’s tall, barrel chested with broad shoulders and a proud stance. No, not pride. Arrogance. Tomás can still tell the difference. He’s met many deservingly prideful men, men who took care of their families. This man is haughty, that he can see from his appearance alone.

The man approaches him, arms open and voice warm. Like he’s greeting an old friend.

“Hola, amigo, how are you?”

Tomás doesn’t answer, because the man doesn’t care.

“Who are you?” He asks, backing away instinctively and hitting the front of the man who brought him here.

“You don’t know me?” The man sounds genuinely surprised. “I am a celebrity and you are…” he looks like he’s about to say something demeaning but changes his mind mid-course. “A new arrival, and I already know your name. Tomás Garcia. Word travels fast, does it not?” He winks. “I heard you killed an acquaintance of mine, a Miguel Rivera. Is this true?” His tone shifts to concern, yet it drips with venom.

A new wave of shame crashes over Tomás. “Sí,” he says, because he has no right to deny it. That boy, Miguel, had looked at him with such fear. He must have hurt that boy to earn such terror directed at him.

The man is pleased. Unnervingly so. He tries to temper the display, but he’s too emotional for his own good. Too dramatic.

“I see. Gracias for your time. Antonio,” he snaps his fingers and the goon who led him here grabs Tomás by the shoulders and takes him out of the courtyard a different way they’d come to it. He’s pushed into an open street bustling with skeletons.

 _Miguel Rivera_. He killed Miguel Rivera. A fourteen year old boy. Tomás has never been good with impulse control, and almost every decision he’s ever made has been a bad one. That is something that doesn’t change in death, and he decides, one way or another, he will find Miguel and apologize. An apology won’t fix anything, merely seeing him is potentially traumatizing to the boy, but Tomás isn’t doing it for Miguel.

He’s doing it for an infinitely more selfish reason. He’s doing it so he can go to sleep at night and think he did _something_ to atone.

. . .

Miguel can’t stop thinking about the man who killed him. Emotions tangle inside him, so muddled he can’t figure out how he feels.

There’s anger, pity, sadness, and it all swirls down into a gaping hole of nothingness. He feels everything and nothing. The emotions, or perhaps the lack thereof, is something he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t feel bad for the man anymore, but he also doesn’t feel the amount of resentment he thinks he should. Imelda seems to feel his fury for him, and Héctor bears the sadness Miguel can’t comprehend.

The boy has never been so conflicted. Above all he wants to understand. _Why_ did the man do this to him? But Miguel has the nagging suspicion the man himself doesn’t know. Which somehow makes it worse. There _was_ no meaning behind his death. It was just something that happened, no rhyme or reason to it. He didn’t die heroically saving a loved one, he didn’t take ill from a sickness that left him bedridden but with time to say his goodbyes.

Above all he misses his family. He wants to go home and end his parents suffering. He wants Rosa to make fun of him, he wants to hug his abuelita.

He looks out his bedroom window into the night. Dante whines, presses his body into Miguel’s leg.

“Hush, Dante.” Miguel scolds, hand touching the glass. He should go to bed, or go seek the company of a family member. It would be the mature thing to do.

What Miguel does next is not something he’s proud of. It’s not the mature thing to do, it’s not the rational decision.

But try as he might, he’s not an adult. He’s still a fourteen year old boy and he runs away from his problems. Miguel opens his window and crawls through it.

Landing in a crouch, he whispers a call to Dante, who barks anxiously before following. The dog lands in Miguel’s arms and he sets Dante down.

“We’re just going for a walk,” Miguel assures. “We’ll be back in an hour.” He means it. Running away indefinitely isn’t his intention. He just needs to go around the block, clear his head. Thus far he’s only left the house with family, for fear of coming across Ernesto de la Cruz. In this moment he forgets those fears, forgets being constantly accompanied by someone had been at his insistence. In this moment he blames his family for the sudden smothering he feels.

Dante keeps close at his heels, whimpering, they begin to wander. He crossed the land of the dead by himself two years ago, taking a midnight walk around the block is a far tamer excursion.

He goes around the block, twice, and comes to sit on the brick wall encircling the property. He sits there, waiting for something he can’t name. The night is cool, stars twinkle overhead, fantastical lights of the city glow softly against the darkness.

Nothing happens.

He goes inside.

Whether he is disappointed or relieved, he can’t tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping on the Coco train and loving it. I don't speak Spanish, any Spanish bits sprinkled in are direct translations from Google Translate, so I apologize it anything is butchered. I absolutely adore Héctor’s and Miguel's relationship in the movie. Seriously, I can't get enough of these boys.  
> If you liked it please let me know :)  
> UPDATE: Instead of leaving this a oneshot I've decided to do a few chapters :) The world needs more Hector and Miguel feels.


End file.
